Exit Wounds

by Aaron Fisher

  Gary pushed the gun into Paul’s hand. “Shoot him.” He made it sound more like he was giving him advice than ordering him to commit murder.

  “Who is he?” Paul’s eyes flickered back and forth between the Colt that had found its way into his hand and the man in the wheelchair.

  “Don’t worry about that. Just do it.”

  Paul bit down and swallowed hard. He could turn the weapon on Gary instead, but with only one round and the two armed goons waiting on the other side of the door, he couldn’t guarantee that he could shoot Gary, retrieve the magazine from inside his jacket, load up and turn back, ready to nail the pair before they had already burst in and riddled him full of bullets.

  “No. I won’t do it,” Paul shook his head. “I’ll kill a man if I’m getting paid, or if I feel like I’m threatened, or even if I’m angry, but not just because you said so.”

  “You’re getting paid,” Gary said. “I’ve told you, the boss wants me to kill you and your brother if you don’t do this, so feel threatened.” He paused. “Anger? Well, you can pretend that this guy has run over your dog? Whatever you like. If it makes it easier for you to put a bullet in him. Just hurry up. I haven’t got all day.”

  Paul studied Gary’s face. He glanced around the room, searching desperately for some means of escape. Another answer.

  Gary was getting restless. Any second now and he would shout for the goons to come in with their assault rifles and put Paul out of his misery. He could maybe get that one round off before they did, taking one of them down with him. But that wouldn’t save Richard. His brother would still join him, and his kids would grow up without having their father. Did this man have children? Did he have a family waiting for him to come home?

  He pushed the thoughts away as best he could. They weren’t helping and Gary was just getting more impatient. Paul gripped the Colt with both hands. One wrapped around the trigger guard and the other from underneath. Just like he had been taught. He raised the weapon level with the man’s head, making eye contact for the first time.

  The details of the man’s face sunk into Paul’s brain like water to a sponge. He had blue eyes. Wide with unimaginable fear. Dark hair. Brown. Cut short on the sides and back. His nose was broken in two places. Zigzagging across like a-

  The back of the man’s head exploded in a fury of blood, skull and brain. The force sent the chair onto its back; one wheel spinning gently with a soft whistle.

  Paul lowered the weapon but his eyes remained fixed on the point where the man’s head had been.

  Gary stepped forward, his hand outstretched, “Good job.”

  Paul nodded once, and handed the Colt back. He waited for Gary to open the door and followed him out, forcing himself not to look back.

  M.I.T. (Murder Investigation Taskforce), Cardiff Branch

  Zeddemore was already standing with his arms folded and a stern look etched into his face when Colgan returned to his office. He had hoped that his boss would have disappeared before he got back but he had always known that he would have to face him again.

  “I think you had better tell me what’s going on,” Zeddemore said.

  Colgan shrugged, passing casually to his desk. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t play games with me, Colgan. My patience has run its course already.”

  Colgan fell back into his chair. “Yeah? Then why don’t you stop playing games with me. Why are you really here?”

  Zeddemore’s face twitched and stiffened. “I’m here to give you one last chance before you flush your career down the drain.”

  “One last chance to do what?”

  “Come clean!” Zeddemore slammed an open palm down on Colgan’s desk, letting his anger overtake him. He breathed in deeply, composing himself before he continued. “You haven’t covered your tracks as well as you thought, Andrew. A friend of mine over at S.O.C.A. told me that an officer of yours has been asking questions about a new drug that’s been awash on our streets.”

  The thought of Zeddemore having any friends seemed impossible but Colgan knew that as District Director he oversaw the Serious Organised Crime Agency as well as the Murder Investigation Taskforce and a dozen other law enforcement agencies.

  Zeddemore waited for a reaction on Colgan’s face but none presented itself. He decided to press on. “Then, I find out that you personally pushed through the application of a new field agent. In a matter of days!”

  This time Colgan visibly shifted in his seat. The action, small as it was, was not unnoticed and fuelled Zeddemore’s witch hunt further. “Now I’m sorry, Andrew. I really am. But despite all the years of our friendship, this kind of unwarranted behaviour has forced me to keep a closer eye on you. Early this morning I was alerted that you had signed out the release of a Beretta 92F firearm from the Armoury, and yet according to the logs, there’s no record of any member of staff being assigned a new weapon. In fact, there’s no record of this new field agent ever even starting work!”

  Colgan knew when his game was up. Zeddemore had put together many of the pieces, it was only a matter of time.

  “You keep looking at that new phone you’ve got every couple of seconds like you’re praying it’s going to ring, and I know it’s not your personal line because you left that in your drawer!” Zeddemore held up the retrieved phone to make his point. “Now I’m going to overlook the fact that on this same morning another body was found as sure coincidence because whilst I know you’re up to something, as a father yourself, I personally don’t think you’re capable of the rape and murder of nineteen young girls. But let me assure you that if you don’t tell me exactly what is going on this very instant, I will have no shortage of rope to hang you by!”

  By the time he had finished Zeddemore’s face looked fit to burst. He loosened his tie, easing some of the red out of his face and stared down hard at Colgan expectantly.

  Colgan glanced down at his desk, and tapped two fingers on its surface with a defeated sigh. “The lead that Tony Horton is running up is not our only active line of inquiry. A member of our team has been investigating the possibility that the person responsible for these murders is also linked to the new designer drug, Plug. It hit our streets around eight months ago and has found its way all around the country, engulfing-”

  “Yes, I know all about Plug from the S.O.C.A. briefings,” Zeddemore interrupted, sitting down.

  Colgan said, “Our agent’s investigation led him to a man that goes by the alias, Rover.”

  Zeddemore shot Colgan an inquiring look.

  “He looks like a big pit bull,” Colgan explained. “He was arrested following a raid on his premises. As was one of his contacts, a man called David Gillespie. His brother, Joel was shot dead during the raid. After questioning Rover, or Stuart Campbell, his real name, we realised that he was arranging a meet between Gillespie and another man we only know by the name of Giacometti.”

  The name instantly struck a chord with Zeddemore, “That’s the man S.O.C.A. believe is behind the manufacture of Plug.”

  Colgan nodded, “He’s a bit of a Keyser Söze. Our information on him is minimal, different sources pin his nationality down to Sweden, Italy, sometimes even Germany. Nobody seems to know what he looks like, but they all live in fear of him.”

  “Yes, he’s said to be a very nasty piece of work.”

  “He’s also said to be a bit of a religious freak and to have a disturbing taste for young girls,” Colgan added.

  Zeddemore was silent for a moment, following this line of thought. “Where does the mystery field agent come into this?” he asked finally.

  Colgan took a deep breath. “David Gillespie was a computer hacker. He didn’t work alone. When you hired one Gillespie, you hired the both of them. Since the meet was already arranged between the Gillespies and Giacometti we decided to take advantage of the situation.”

  “You replaced them with your own men.”

  “Only it wasn’t that simple,” Colgan rubbed his weary face wi
th his hands. In some ways it felt good to get all this off his chest. “The Gillespie brothers were twins, identical twins, and whilst information given to possible employers was kept to a minimal. Campbell told us that Giacometti already knew that much at least.”

  “Meaning that whoever you sent would also have to be identical. Off the top of my head I can’t recall there being any twins within the department,” Zeddemore said.

  Colgan remained silent.

  “You’re not telling me that you pushed through an application so a civilian could accompany one of your officers on an undercover operation!”

  “He wasn’t just a civilian. He’s served in the British Army. Special Air Service to be precise,” Colgan said.

  Zeddemore rose out of his chair. “That’s beside the point! Do you have any idea what you’ve done!?”

  Colgan looked up, “I know exactly what I’ve done.”

  “You said that it was just a meet,” Zeddemore started. “When are they due back?”

  He’s not going to like this. Colgan bit down on his lip. “That’s the problem, John. I haven’t had any contact with them since they left three hours ago. I don’t know where they are.”

  The room seemed to get suddenly hotter; the heat from Zeddemore’s reddening face engulfing the room. He shot a pointed finger at Colgan, “You should have told me about this first, Colgan! You should have cleared this with me!”

  “I couldn’t tell you, because then you’d be responsible. If I got this approved by you and it went wrong the shit would come to your door. I was protecting you,” Colgan lied. In reality he knew if he had brought this to Zeddemore he would never have cleared it in the first place. But that wasn’t the only reason. It wasn’t Zeddemore he was protecting. He had a promise to keep. “Don’t you see? I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Well you’re going to tell me now,” Zeddemore said. “You’re going to tell me everything. Starting with the names of the two men you’ve thrown into this godforsaken mess.”

  Colgan nodded with a sigh. He didn’t like this, but getting Zeddemore on board might help save his men’s lives, “The two officer’s names are Richard and Paul Russell.”

  108

  16.54 (Local Time)

  Eight Months Ago

  Sangin. Helmand Province. Afghanistan.

  Approx. 1 mile North-East of Sangin

  Paul Russell ran as fast as he could. Blood pounded through his head at a million miles an hour and he could feel his pulse throb violently at the base of his skull. He did his best to keep zigzagging as he ran. It would make it difficult for the snipers to get a fix on him. Paul wondered if it was even worth it, there was so much machine-gun fire ripping through the air that he had just as much chance as running straight into a bullet as avoiding one.

  The high-pitched shriek of another mortar round being fired rang out. Paul dropped, hitting the ground hard. The earth suddenly exploded twenty metres from him, spraying him in dirt.

  Straight away Paul dragged himself to his feet and started running again. Carrying the combined weight of his body armour, L96A1 AWS sniper rifle, SPAS 12 shotgun and combat jacket with each pouch stuffed to the brim with ammo, whilst sprinting in zigzags across open desert was causing his chest to heave. It was the constant stop and start that was causing the splitting stitch in his side the most.

  The scream of yet another mortar came and Paul almost had second thoughts about getting down this time. He did anyway and the mortar erupted less than ten metres away from him. The bastard was getting closer.

  Up ahead, tucked in behind some rocks, were maybe a dozen or more Taliban. There must have been a dip on the other side of the peak because even those not concealed by the mud and rock were still only visible as muzzle flashes.

  Sergeant Cowan, Corporal Reading and Privates Baker and Russell were all spread out from each other to present less of a target.

  Sangin was notorious for being one of the central locations of the opium trade in Southern Afghanistan. The town itself had a long tradition of supporting the Taliban. A local informer had tipped them off about a large supply of heroin that was being collected here before it headed north for the Afghan-Soviet border. There it would be sold to Russian arms dealers in exchange for weapons.

  Whilst the soldiers did their best to arrest or kill any drugs smugglers, the I.S.A.F.’s directive didn’t include counter-narcotics operations, unless they could be linked to the insurgency. An unfortunate fact that quite often tied their hands behind their backs.

  Paul had joined the army as a boy soldier at sixteen. He was first deployed on operations when he was eighteen years old, serving first in the Royal Regiment of Wales and then in the Royal Welsh, when the regiment was been merged with the Welch Fusiliers. He passed selection first time into the 22 Special Air Service B Squadron two years later, earning himself the beige beret with the distinctive “winged dagger” insignia.

  Unlike the American Special Forces, the discussion of S.A.S. operations were still covered by an official blanket ban by the Ministry of Defence. It wasn’t an invitation for a free-for-all, but it gave them the room they needed to do their job. The jobs no one else would, or could.

  With nowhere to hide and nowhere to run, except straight on, the four man patrol were racing straight for their attackers.

  By the time the next mortar had fired, Paul had gotten close enough to see the firer and his second, dropping a second round down the pipe. Already down flat on his stomach, Paul looked down the optical sight of his L96A1 AWS. He moved his weapon carefully, lining up the mortar firer’s head with the top of the vertical post. Holding his breath to steady the rifle he squeezed back gently on the trigger.

  The top of the man’s head spat out blood and he dropped to the floor instantly. The second, although surprised, quickly took up his comrade’s place at the weapon. It was easy for Paul to simply adjust and shoot again, almost in the exact same position he had fired the first shot.

  “Coming through! Coming through!” Baker yelled at the top of his voice over the chaos. He ran forward past Paul and laid down fifteen metres to the right before firing.

  None of the other insurgents were taking up the mortar. With two of their men down in quick succession, they probably realised that it was now too exposed and they were better off staying where they were.

  Paul leapt to his feet and started running again, simultaneously shouting to Baker and the others who might be firing in his direction. He lay down again and started firing, waiting for the others to do the same.

  When it was his turn again, Paul was close enough to climb up the ridge. Reaching the top, he crouched down behind two boulders and reached for the grenades on his belt. Releasing the pin he let one cook for a couple of seconds before flinging it over the top.

  “Fire in the hole!” He screamed to the rest of the patrol, ducking down with his fingers in his ears.

  The ground shook around him. Paul looked up. Bits of rock and flesh had been showered everywhere. A severed hand lay inches from his foot. Paul kicked it away with his foot and switched his sniper rifle for the shotgun on his back. Baker had managed to climb the ridge too and had just reached him.

  Paul gave him a nod and took up position. Baker scuffled down a few steps, his weapon trained on the top of the ridge. “Covering fire!”

  The remaining Taliban instantly ducked down as bullets whizzed past their faces. Paul quickly scrambled over, dropping down into the concealed dip. His feet landed hard on a squishy mess of dead bodies, torn apart by his grenade. Up ahead eight men were crouched down behind the rock, a few taking the opportunity to reload.

  Paul brought his weapon up and opened fire. Moving forward with one deliberate step after another, he kept pumping rounds in and kept firing. His bullets mowed the men down one by one. Most of them fell silently, unaware of his presence even in death. But a few managed to turn, gasp and scream. Their last expressions of shock and despair fixed onto their faces forever more.

  One of them was
faster than the rest. He turned quickly, his weapon squaring up to Paul’s chest. Paul dropped to one knee, swiftly bringing himself out of aim as the insurgent’s bullets passed overhead. Paul fired, pumped in another round and fired again into the man’s torso. His chest exploded with red blossoms and he slumped down onto his back. Silence.

  Once he had jumped over, it had taken Paul less than ten seconds to wipe out every last insurgent.

  “Clear!” he called back to his fellow soldiers.

  Baker was the first over, having already been close behind Paul, then came Cowan, their officer in command and finally Corporal Reading.

  Baker surveyed the area around them with a whistle, “Nice handiwork, Tanker.”

  “Thanks, wanker.” Paul shot his friend a smile with the shake of his head. He tightened the strap against his chest as he returned the shotgun to his back alongside his rifle.

  Cowan nodded, “Good work, Russell.” He patted Paul on the shoulder as he passed through.

  Reading gave his approval with a puffed grin, leaning against the rocks to catch his breath. “Just try and leave some for the rest of us next time, huh? Promise?”

  “I promise,” Paul agreed. “Just as long as you try to keep up next time.”

  “Fuck you,” Reading laughed. He was the men’s corporal, which meant he was second-in-command to Sergeant Cowan. But that didn’t stop Paul being cheeky with him. He thumbed to the Tactical Communications equipment strapped to his back with the rest of his gear. “How come I’m the only one who had to carry this fucking heap of shit?”

  Baker pouted mockingly, “Because you look so pretty with it on.”

  Reading curled his fingers and shook his hand at the wrist.

  “Speaking of which, you had better get on the blower and let them know we’ve stopped the shipment,” Cowan said. “No way are we going to be able to carry this load back with us. See if there are any local patrols we can catch a lift on to the F.O.B.”